Oral Sub for Emily (F/M – BDSM)
Chapter 1: The Messages
It was one of those restless nights, half past midnight, the house quiet except for the low hum of your laptop fan. You were scrolling Fabswingers again, not really expecting anything new, just chasing that familiar low thrum of anticipation. Then her profile appeared in the feed.
Emily. No elaborate bio. No long list of kinks or limits. Just a handful of photos: one in a plain black jumper and jeans, straight blonde hair tucked behind her ears, standing in what looked like a Norwich street; another closer-up, sharp eyes looking straight into the camera, mouth set in a line that said she didn’t suffer fools; a third showing her legs crossed on a sofa, black ankle boots with a low block heel catching the light, scuffed but cared-for, practical, commanding. The bio was short, blunt: “5'2". Short domme. Seeking taller subs who understand their mouth is the only part that matters. Oral service only. No reciprocation. No romance. No chit-chat. Service or delete.”
You stared at the screen for a long moment. Something about the directness made your stomach tighten in that good-bad way. You clicked Message.
Your first message was careful, polite, introducing yourself, mentioning you were in the area, admitting you were drawn to the one-sided aspect. Her reply came within ten minutes.
“Limits?”
No hello. No pleasantries. Just that single word.
You typed back quickly: soft limits on pain, hard limit on permanent marks, no public exposure beyond discreet play, love denial and oral worship, happy to be used without return.
Another short wait.
“Prove you can follow simple instructions. Kneel tonight. Full body photo, naked, hands behind back. Caption it: ‘Ready to be useful, Miss Emily.’ Send within the hour. If it’s cropped or late, don’t bother replying again.”
Your heart kicked hard. You set a timer, stripped, knelt on the bedroom carpet in front of the full-length mirror. The flash felt exposing, clinical. You took the shot, knees apart, back straight, hands clasped behind you, cock already half-hard from the humiliation of it. You added the caption exactly as instructed and hit send before you could overthink.
Twenty minutes later, a notification.
A single laughing emoji. Then a voice note.
You tapped play. Her voice was calm, clipped, northern-edged, quiet but carrying that unmistakable “takes no shit” tone.
“Good start. You look obedient enough. Norwich next week. The White Lion, Thursday, 2:30 pm. Quiet booth at the back. Wear loose trousers, easy access. Bring nothing, no expectations, no gifts, no questions. If you’re late or you talk too much, I walk out. Understood?”
A pause. Then, unexpectedly, a short, bubbly giggle cracked through the recording, high and delighted, almost surprised at her own amusement. It lasted maybe two seconds before she caught herself and continued in the same flat tone.
“Delete this after you listen. See you Thursday, puppy.”
The message ended.
You sat there in the dark, still naked on the carpet, replaying that giggle in your head. It didn’t match the cold efficiency of her words. It was manic. Unhinged in the best way. Like she was genuinely enjoying the power she already held over you, and the thought of it amused her so much she couldn’t quite contain it.
You saved the voice note for a little longer than you should have, then deleted it.
Thursday was four days away. You spent them in a low-grade fever, checking your phone obsessively, rereading her messages, imagining those boots, that small frame, that sharp face looking down at you. Wondering if that giggle would slip out again when she saw how quickly you obeyed. Wondering if she was just a little mad. Wondering if that made it better.
Thursday morning you showered twice. Chose plain dark trousers, loose enough to shift under pressure. No underwear, she hadn’t said it, but the “easy access” instruction felt like a hint. You left early, drove into Norwich, parked near the cathedral, walked the last bit on foot to steady your nerves.
The White Lion was quiet mid-afternoon: low ceilings, wooden beams, a handful of regulars at the bar, booths tucked along the side wall. You chose the rearmost one, semi-private, backs to the room, tablecloth long enough to hide whatever might happen underneath.
You sat. Waited.
At 2:28 your phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
“Outside. Come to the door.”
You stood, legs unsteady, and walked to the entrance.
She was there, 5'2" exactly as advertised, straight blonde hair loose around her shoulders, black leather jacket over a simple top, jeans hugging soft curves, those same black ankle boots with the low block heel. No smile. Just a quick once-over, eyes flicking from your face to your crotch and back.
She tilted her head toward the booth you’d chosen.
“Sit.”
You followed her back inside. She slid into the seat opposite you without another word.
The game had begun.
Chapter 2: The Pub
You followed Emily back to the booth without a word. She slid in first, taking the side facing the room so she could see anyone approaching. You sat opposite her, knees almost touching under the narrow wooden table. The tablecloth hung long enough to brush your thighs - a small mercy, or perhaps deliberate on her part.
She didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you. Those sharp eyes scanned your face, then dropped briefly to your lap, then back up. A tiny nod, like she was confirming something to herself.
After a moment she tilted her head toward the bar. “Go get the drinks. Gin and tonic for me. IPA for you. No chit-chat with the barman. Straight back.”
You stood, legs already unsteady from nerves, and walked to the bar. The White Lion was quiet mid-afternoon: low ceilings, wooden beams, a handful of regulars nursing pints, the low murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of glass. You ordered quickly - a gin and tonic, a pint of IPA - paid, carried the drinks back without looking around too much. Your cock was already stirring just from the anticipation of sitting opposite her again.
You set the glasses down carefully. She took her gin without thanks, had a small sip, then set it aside. As you settled back into your seat her right boot found your inner ankle almost immediately.
It started light. Almost casual. Then she uncrossed her legs and planted the sole flat against your crotch. Firm. No hesitation. The leather pressed through the loose fabric of your trousers, cupping your balls and pinning them gently but inescapably against your thigh. You sucked in a breath.
Above the table her expression stayed neutral. She took another slow sip of gin, set the glass down with a soft clink, and asked in a perfectly ordinary voice, “So. How was your morning?”
You managed something vague about work. She nodded as if genuinely interested, asked a follow-up about your team, all while her boot stayed exactly where it was. Then she shifted her weight.
The pressure increased. Slow. Deliberate. The low block heel dug in just enough to make your balls ache in that sharp, spreading way that’s half pain, half something else. You gripped the edge of the seat. Your knuckles went white.
She kept the conversation going. Casual. The weather. Traffic coming into Norwich. That new coffee place on Gentleman's Walk everyone was talking about. Every few sentences she flexed her foot - a small roll of the sole, grinding you against your own thigh - then eased off just enough for you to catch your breath before starting again.
You tried to keep up with her questions. Your voice came out thinner than usual. She noticed. A tiny smile tugged at one corner of her mouth - not warm, not cruel, just satisfied.
“You’re already hard,” she said quietly, so only you could hear. “I can feel it. Pathetic.”
The word landed like a slap. Your cock twitched under the boot. She felt that too. Her eyes sparkled for half a second - that same manic glint from the voice note - and then a short, bubbly giggle escaped her. High and delighted. It lasted barely two seconds before she swallowed it, composed her face again, and took another sip of gin.
“Keep still,” she murmured. “Or I walk out right now and you go home leaking into your boxers like a desperate boy.”
You froze. Tried to breathe evenly. The pub noise - clink of glasses, low conversation from the bar - felt suddenly very far away. All you could focus on was the steady, unrelenting pressure of her boot. She worked it in small circles now, crushing your balls in slow, controlled pulses. Each time the heel caught the base of your cock you had to bite the inside of your cheek to stay quiet.
She asked another question about your weekend plans. You stammered through an answer. She listened, head tilted slightly, boot never stopping. When the barman wandered past to clear a nearby table she smiled sweetly at him, thanked him for nothing in particular, all while grinding harder for a few seconds, making your vision blur at the edges.
Emily finished her gin in two swallows, set the empty glass down, and checked her watch.
“Time,” she said flatly.
The boot withdrew. Just like that. No warning. No finish. Your cock thr0bb3d painfully against the fabric, leaking, aching, denied.
She stood without ceremony.
“Follow me.”
She didn’t wait to see if you would. She just walked toward the corridor at the back of the pub, hips swaying slightly, boots clicking on the wooden floor.
You stood on unsteady legs, adjusted yourself as discreetly as possible, and followed.
Chapter 3: The Bathroom
Emily didn't look back as she walked down the short corridor at the rear of the White Lion. Her boots clicked steadily on the worn floorboards - a deliberate, unhurried rhythm that made your pulse hammer harder with every step you took behind her.
The corridor was narrow, dimly lit, lined with a couple of framed old pub photos and a faded "Toilets" sign. She reached the single-occupancy door at the end, pushed it open without knocking, stepped inside, and held it just long enough for you to follow. The moment you crossed the threshold she let the door swing shut and turned the lock with a sharp click.
The space was small: sink on one wall, toilet opposite, mirror above the basin reflecting both of you in harsh fluorescent light. She didn't waste time.
She stepped forward, small hand shooting up to wrap around your throat. Not a ch0k3 - not yet - just a firm grip, fingers pressing into the sides of your neck, using your height against you to push your back against the cold tiled wall beside the sink. Your head tilted back slightly from the pressure. Her other hand came up and grabbed a fistful of your hair at the crown, yanking down so you had to bend your knees a little to meet her level.
Her face was close now. Those sharp eyes locked on yours. No smile. Just calm, expectant command.
"Knees."
You dropped. The tile was cold and unforgiving through your trousers. Your knees hit with a dull thud that echoed in the small room.
Emily released your throat but kept the grip on your hair. She turned slightly, lowering the toilet lid with her free hand, then placed her right boot - the same black ankle boot she'd been crushing you with under the table - on the now-closed lid. The sole was presented directly in front of your face at perfect mouth height while you knelt. Scuffs and faint traces of pub-floor grit were visible now in the bright light: a smear of something dark near the heel, a few specks of dust caught in the tread.
"Lick," she said flatly. "Clean every speck of this floor you made me walk on. Start at the toe. Work your way back. Thoroughly."
You leaned in. The smell hit first - warm leather, faint rubber from the sole, a hint of whatever the pub floor had tracked in. Your tongue touched the smooth leather at the toe. You dragged it slowly along the curve, tasting polish and faint salt. She watched, expression neutral, but her fingers in your hair tightened when you hesitated for half a second.
"Faster," she said. "I don't have all afternoon."
You obeyed. Tongue flattening, lapping broader strokes now. The grit was minimal but real - tiny grains that caught on your tongue, bitter and dusty. You worked methodically: toe to instep, instep to arch, arch to heel. When you reached the tread she pressed down slightly with her foot, forcing the sole harder against your mouth so the pattern pressed into your lips and tongue.
She giggled then - that short, bubbly sound again, high and sudden. It burst out like she couldn't help it.
"Oh my god," she said, voice cracking with amusement. "Look at you. Licking pub dirt off my boot like it's your job. It's actually quite funny."
The giggle faded as quickly as it came. She composed herself, tugged your hair to angle your head better, and ground the sole against your tongue in a slow circle.
"Deeper," she ordered. "Get in the grooves. I want to see my reflection in it when you're done."
You pressed your tongue harder, tracing the tread lines, tasting more of the floor, more of her boot. Your cock strained painfully against your trousers - still aching from the earlier crushing, leaking steadily now, untouched. She noticed. Of course she did.
"Pathetic," she murmured. "You're dripping just from cleaning my boot. Imagine if I actually let you do something useful."
She let you work for several more minutes - long enough that your jaw started to ache, your tongue felt raw from the texture. Finally she lowered her foot from the toilet lid, inspected the sole in the mirror, gave a small nod of approval.
"Better."
She stepped back, released your hair. You stayed kneeling, breathing hard through your nose, mouth slick with spit and the faint taste of leather and grit.
Emily zipped her jacket, smoothed her hair, checked her reflection once more. Then she looked down at you - still on your knees, face flushed, lips shiny.
"That's enough for today," she said calmly. "Go home. Think about how useless your cock is. Don't touch it. Don't cum. If I text you again, you'll drop everything and come running. Understood?"
You nodded. Voice hoarse. "Yes, Miss Emily."
She gave one last small smile - satisfied, almost bored - then unlocked the door and walked out. The corridor light spilled in for a second before the door swung shut behind her.
You stayed on the floor for another thirty seconds, catching your breath, tasting her boot still on your tongue. Your cock thr0bb3d uselessly. Denied. Aching. Hooked.
Eventually you stood, splashed water on your face, adjusted yourself as best you could, and left the bathroom. The pub carried on as if nothing had happened. Emily was already gone.
You walked back to your car on unsteady legs, phone clutched in your hand, waiting - already waiting - for whatever she decided to do next.
Chapter 4: The First Summons
The first text arrived on Monday morning at 10:47, while you were finishing emails at your desk.
“Flat. 1pm today. Door unlocked. Strip in hallway. Kneel in living room. Collar on table - put it on yourself. Don’t speak unless asked. Don’t be late.”
No greeting. No pleasantries. Just instructions, cold and precise. Your stomach flipped. You checked the address she’d sent the night before - a Victorian terrace off Unthank Road, narrow red-brick row house, bay window at the front, typical Norwich two-up-two-down. You replied with a simple “Yes, Miss Emily” and spent the next two hours trying (and failing) to concentrate.
At 12:50 you locked your screen, left the office, and walked the short distance through the back streets. Under ten minutes on foot - close enough that these lunch-break visits would be easy to manage. You arrived at the terrace, pushed the shared front door (on the latch as promised), climbed the narrow stairs to the first floor, found Flat 3B (no nameplate), turned the handle. Unlocked.
The hallway was tight, original floorboards creaking underfoot, coat hooks on one wall, a small side table by the door. You closed the door behind you and stripped. Shirt, trousers, shoes, socks, underwear - everything folded neatly on the table. Naked now, skin prickling in the cool air of the old house, you stepped forward.
The living room opened immediately off the hall - small, high-ceilinged, original cornicing, bay window letting in slanted afternoon light through half-closed blinds. Grey sofa against one wall, low coffee table in front, TV mounted opposite. On the table sat the collar: brown leather, soft and worn, single buckle, small D-ring at the front. Simple, functional, waiting. Next to it a pair of matching wrist cuffs.
You picked up the collar. The leather was supple, already broken in. You buckled it around your neck - snug but not tight - fingers trembling slightly as the metal tongue clicked into place. The D-ring sat cool against your throat. The weight felt immediate, grounding. You knelt in the centre of the room, facing the sofa, hands resting on your thighs, eyes down.
Minutes passed. Five, maybe ten. You heard the faint sound of the front door opening downstairs, then footsteps on the stairs.
Emily entered. Work clothes: white blouse tucked into a knee-length skirt, same black ankle boots from the pub. Straight blonde hair loose, face composed. She closed the door, hung her bag on a hook in the hallway, then stepped into the living room.
She didn’t speak at first. Just looked down at you - collared, naked, kneeling - and gave a small nod of approval.
She walked behind you. You heard a soft clink as she picked up the wrist cuffs from the side table. She crouched slightly, took your right wrist first, wrapped the cuff around it, pulled the strap through the buckle, and tightened it snug. Then the left. Her fingers were efficient, cool against your skin. She clipped the two cuffs together behind your back, the quick snap of metal on metal. The position forced your shoulders back a little, chest forward.
Only then did she move to the sofa. She sat, legs crossed at the knee, skirt riding up just enough to show the tops of her thighs. She reached down, unzipped one boot, tugged it off, then the other. Bare feet now - small, pale, toenails unpainted. She placed the boots neatly to one side.
She uncrossed her legs, spread them slightly, hiked her skirt higher. No underwear. Just bare skin, already glistening faintly. She leant forward, tangled her fingers in your hair and pulled your face forward.
No words. Just the tug.
Your mouth met her. Warm, slick, salty. You started slow - tongue flat, long licks from bottom to top - then focused on her clit when her grip tightened. She didn’t moan loudly. Small exhales, soft huffs of breath. Her hips rolled once, twice, guiding you deeper. One hand stayed in your hair; the other scrolled idly on her phone, thumb flicking across the screen like she was checking emails.
You worked harder. Tongue circling, pressing, flicking. Her thighs tensed around your ears. She came quietly - a sharp inhale, a small shudder, fingers clenching in your hair hard enough to sting. She held you there through the aftershocks, grinding once more against your tongue, then pushed your head back.
You stayed kneeling, face wet, breathing ragged, wrists cuffed behind you, cock hard and untouched between your legs.
She stood, smoothed her skirt, took a long drink from the water bottle she’d brought in with her bag. She walked behind you again, reached down and unbuckled the cuffs, placing them to one side. Next, she reached for your neck, giving the collar a sharp, playful tug that catches your breath before she pulls it free. She set it back on the coffee table.
“Out,” she said.
She watches as you stand, unsure, and head for the hallway.
“Wednesday,” she said. “Collar on the table again when you arrive. Door will be unlocked.”
You dress hurriedly and step into the corridor. The door closed behind you with a soft click.
Heart still racing, taste of her still on your lips, cock aching with no relief. You walked back to the office on unsteady legs, collar’s phantom weight lingering on your neck even though it was gone.
The next day’s text came at 10:32.
Same instructions.
You were already counting the hours.
Chapter 5: The Routine
The summons came like clockwork. Every Monday, Wednesday, and sometimes Friday, the text landed between 10:30 and 11:00. Always the same wording:
“Flat. 1pm. Door unlocked. Strip. Collar on. Kneel. Don’t be late.”
No variation. No explanation. Just the expectation that you would rearrange your day, walk the short distance from the office, and arrive ready to serve. And you did. Every time.
By the second week the routine had hardened into something almost mechanical. You arrived, stripped in the tight hallway of the Victorian terrace, buckled the brown leather collar around your neck (the D-ring catching the light from the bay window), knelt in the living room facing the sofa, hands on thighs, eyes down. The cuffs waited on the coffee table beside the collar - matching brown leather, soft but sturdy.
Emily’s arrival was always the same sequence: key in the downstairs door, footsteps on the narrow stairs, front door opening. She stepped in, hung her bag, closed the door, then moved straight to you without a word.
She circled behind first. Crouched. Picked up the cuffs. Wrapped one around your right wrist, pulled the strap through the buckle, tightened it until it sat snug against your skin. Then the left. A quick clip linked them behind your back. A small clip between them, just enough to keep your hands useless, shoulders pulled back, chest exposed. She never spoke during this part. The only sounds were the soft creak of floorboards, the clink of metal, your own breathing.
Only after the cuffs were on did she move to the sofa. She sat, legs crossed, skirt riding up. Reached down, unzipped one boot, tugged it off, then the other. Bare feet now - small, pale, arches slightly high. She placed the boots neatly to the side, uncrossed her legs, spread them, hiked the skirt higher. No underwear. Always no underwear.
She leant forward, fingers in your hair, pulled your face between her thighs.
No preamble. No praise. Just the tug.
You learned her rhythm quickly. Slow at first - long, flat licks to cover her, tasting the faint salt of her day. Then circling her clit when her grip tightened. Tongue pressing, flicking, sucking lightly when she rolled her hips forward. Her responses were quiet: small exhales, soft huffs, the occasional sharp inhale when you hit the right spot. One hand stayed in your hair, guiding, tugging, sometimes yanking hard enough to make your scalp sting. The other scrolled her phone - emails, messages, sometimes a quick laugh at something on screen that had nothing to do with you.
She timed you now. Not out loud at first, but you felt it. The way her thighs would tense sooner each visit, the way her grip would tighten as the minutes ticked down. One Wednesday she murmured, almost bored, “Under ten minutes today or no air next time.” You didn’t know if she was serious. You made her come in nine.
When she finished - always quietly, a small shudder, thighs clamping your ears, fingers digging in - she pushed your head back. You knelt there, face slick, breathing hard, wrists cuffed, cock straining untouched. She stood, smoothed her skirt, took a drink from the water bottle she always brought.
Sometimes she edged you. Not often, but enough to keep you desperate. She’d place a bare foot on your chest and gently push you back, before pressing the sole against your cock - cool skin on hot, aching flesh - and rub slowly. Small circles, light pressure, just enough to make you leak and whimper. Then she’d stop. Pull away. Giggle once - that short, bubbly crack in her composure - and say, “Not for you.”
The giggle was the only sign she was enjoying it. Otherwise she was detached, almost clinical. “You’re just my lunch-break mouth,” she said once, voice flat. “I see other people. You exist for this.” But when you obeyed perfectly - tongue exactly where she wanted, pace matching her hips - that manic little laugh would slip out, high and delighted, like she couldn’t quite believe how easy it was to own you.
After, she always unclipped the chain first, then unbuckled the cuffs one by one. Then the collar - fingers brushing your throat as she pulled it free, sometimes giving the D-ring a sharp tug that caught your breath before releasing it. She set everything neatly on the coffee table.
“Out.”
You dressed in the hallway, walked back to the office on unsteady legs, her taste lingering on your tongue, collar’s phantom weight still there even though it was gone.
By the end of the month the routine was unbreakable. You checked your phone obsessively from 10:30 onwards. Rearranged meetings. Skipped lunch. Walked the route so many times you could do it with your eyes closed. The Victorian terrace, the creaking stairs, the narrow hallway, the bay-windowed living room - they became the centre of your world.
And still, she gave you nothing in return. No touch. No release. No affection. Just the collar, the cuffs, her bare thighs, and the quiet command to serve.
You were already counting the hours until the next text.
Chapter 6: Deepening Control
The texts started arriving earlier. Not every day, but often enough that the shift felt deliberate.
By the third week, a message would land around 9:45 or 10:00 some mornings:
“No underwear today. Quick access. 1pm.”
You obeyed without question. Left the office at 12:50, walked the familiar route through Norwich’s back streets, arrived at the Victorian terrace, stripped in the hallway, buckled the brown leather collar (D-ring cool against your throat), knelt in the living room, waited.
Emily’s arrival never changed: key, footsteps, door, bag hung, straight to you. Cuffs on first - right wrist, left wrist, clipped behind your back. Boots off. Bare feet. Skirt hiked. Face pulled between thighs.
But now she pushed further.
One Tuesday she blindfolded you on arrival. As you knelt waiting, she stepped behind you, slipped a soft black blindfold over your eyes, tied it snug at the back of your head. Darkness swallowed the bay-window light, the creaking floorboards, everything except sound and touch and her scent.
She cuffed your wrists as usual, then guided you forward on your knees until your chest pressed against the edge of the sofa. She sat, spread her legs, tangled fingers in your hair, pulled you in.
Blind, cuffed, collared, you licked. No sight to read her face or body language - only the taste of her, the rhythm of her breathing, the tightening of her thighs around your ears when you got it right. She guided harder now: yanking your head to adjust angle, pressing your face deeper until your nose was buried, cutting off air for seconds at a time. When she came - a quiet, shuddering release - she held you there through it, thighs clamped, blindfold tight, lungs burning until she finally let go.
You gasped when she released you, face slick, blindfold damp. She laughed - that short, bubbly giggle, high and delighted.
“Oh god,” she said, voice cracking with amusement. “Look at you. Gasping like a fish. It’s hilarious.”
She didn’t remove the blindfold. Just stood, walked around you, placed a bare foot on your chest and pushed gently until you leant back on your heels. Then the sole pressed against your cock - cool, firm, rubbing in slow circles. You whimpered. Leaked. She edged you for perhaps thirty seconds - long enough to make your hips twitch involuntarily - then pulled away.
“Not for you,” she murmured. Another giggle. “Maybe next week. If you’re very good.”
She removed the blindfold last, after unclipping the cuffs and unbuckling the collar. Her eyes were bright, amused, a little wild.
“Out. Same time tomorrow.”
The breath play became regular. Not every visit, but often enough to keep you on edge. She’d press your face deeper during her build-up, hand sometimes sliding down to wrap loosely around your throat while you licked - squeezing lightly when she neared climax, making stars dance behind your eyelids, releasing only after she’d finished shuddering against your tongue.
One Friday she murmured mid-session, “Hold your breath until I come or I stop and send you back to work frustrated.” You obeyed. Licked through burning lungs. Made her come in under eight minutes. When she pushed you back she giggled again - longer this time, almost manic.
“You’re getting good at this,” she said, almost impressed. “Pathetic how eager my little oral toy is.”
She edged you with her foot again that day - sole rubbing your cock, toes curling slightly to tease the head - then stopped cold. Left you leaking, aching, blindfolded until the very end.
You rearranged more than meetings now. You started blocking the full lunch hour in your calendar. Skipped team lunches. Walked the route so often you knew every crack in the pavement, every creak in the stairs. The Victorian terrace felt like an extension of your own body - hallway for stripping, living room for kneeling, sofa for serving.
Emily noticed. Of course she did.
One Wednesday, after she’d come quietly on your tongue, she looked down at you - blindfold off, cuffs still on, face flushed - and said flatly:
“You drop everything for this, don’t you? Pathetic.”
Then the giggle slipped out - high, delighted, a little unhinged.
You nodded. Couldn’t speak. Didn’t need to.
She tugged the D-ring on your collar once - sharp, playful, catching your breath - then released it.
“Out. Tomorrow. No underwear again.”
You dressed in the hallway, walked back to the office, her taste lingering, cock aching, mind already counting down to the next text.
The routine wasn’t just routine anymore. It was ownership. Quiet. Casual. Complete.
And still - nothing in return.
Chapter 7: The Edge of Ownership
The text arrived on Thursday at 10:12 - earlier, longer, edged with something new.
“Full hour. 1pm sharp. Door unlocked. Strip. Collar and cuffs on. Kneel. Wait. No speaking.”
No other words. Just the command.
You left the office at 12:45, walked fast through the back streets, heart already pounding. The Victorian terrace looked unchanged - narrow brick, bay window, quiet street. You pushed the shared door (on the latch), climbed the creaking stairs, entered Flat 3B.
Hallway strip. Clothes folded on the table. Brown leather collar buckled tight around your neck - D-ring pressing cool against your throat. Matching cuffs on wrists - you tightened them yourself as best you could, left them unlinked. You knelt in the living room centre, facing the sofa, before tying the blindfold around your head, cutting off your vision, and waiting.
Minutes stretched. Ten. Fifteen. Floorboards hard under your knees.
Footsteps on the stairs - quicker today. Key in the lock. Door opening. Bag dropped with a thud. Boots clicking straight across the floorboards.
Emily didn’t pause. She stepped behind you, grabbed your cuffs, yanked them back hard enough to hurt. A quick clip - metal snapping - linked them properly now. Then her fingers hooked through the D-ring on your collar, jerked your head back once, rough, making you gasp.
She moved to the sofa. Didn’t sit. Just stood over you for a second, skirt hiked, then pointed down.
“Lie on your back. Floor. Now.”
You dropped flat, wrists cuffed beneath you, awkward angle forcing your shoulders into the boards. She stepped over you - boots still on, black leather ankle boots with the low block heel - straddled your chest, then shifted forward until her knees pinned your shoulders. Skirt bunched at her hips. No underwear. She lowered herself onto your face without warning.
Rough. Urgent.
Her weight settled hard. Thighs clamped your head. She ground down immediately - no slow build, no gentle guiding. Hips rocked fast, smearing herself across your mouth and nose. You licked frantically - tongue pressing deep, circling her clit, sucking when she tilted to give you access. Air came in short, desperate bursts between her movements. She rode you like an object - urgent, selfish, chasing release without care for your breathing.
One hand gripped your hair, yanking your head into her harder. She came once - fast, thighs quivering, a sharp hiss escaping her. Didn’t stop. Kept grinding. Came again - rougher, hips slamming down, smothering you completely for long seconds. Lungs burned. Vision spotted black at the edges. She held you there through the aftershocks, then lifted just enough to let you gasp once before dropping again.
Third orgasm hit her harder. She bucked against your face, thighs crushing your ears, fingers twisting in your hair until it hurt. A low, ragged exhale - almost a growl - as she finished.
When she finally lifted off, your face was soaked, jaw aching, lungs heaving. She moved to sit on the of the sofa, you still laying beneath her on the floor.
She looked down - eyes bright, wild, that manic glint sharp now. No giggle yet. Just satisfaction.
One boot lifted - sole pressed firmly against your throat. Not full weight, but enough. The tread bit into your skin, restricting air just enough to make your pulse thunder in your ears. She rocked forward slightly, increasing pressure.
Then the other boot - placed directly on your cock. Heel on your balls. She pressed down - slow, deliberate, crushing you against your own stomach. Pain bloomed sharp and hot. Your hips jerked involuntarily. She held it there. Ground once. Twice. The leather sole scraped slightly as she rolled it.
You whimpered - small, broken sound. She laughed then - that short, bubbly giggle, high and delighted, cracking wide open.
“Oh god,” she said, voice trembling with amusement. “Listen to you. Whimpering under my boot like a desperate little thing.”
She eased the pressure on your throat - just enough to breathe - but kept the boot on your cock, rocking it slowly, edging you through the pain. You leaked. Thr0bb3d. Hips twitched uselessly.
She stopped abruptly. Lifted both boots off you completely.
You lay there gasping, body trembling, cock aching untouched, face slick with her.
She stood, standing over you. She placed one boot on your chest - not crushing, just owning.
She stepped off you after a moment, pulled you up into sitting position by your collar, choking you as she did. Reaching behind you she undid you blind, cuffs and collar.
“Back to work,” she said.
She opened the door. You stood on shaking legs, collected your clothes, dressed in the hallway. Door closed behind you with a soft click.
You walked back to the office - her taste thick on your tongue, throat raw, cock still throbbing, mind blank.
You checked your phone the rest of the afternoon, waiting for the next text, fully aware that your pleasure didn’t matter.
Only service did.
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